Twentyfourseven
by Otterly
Summary: Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two and a quarter weeks a year. You can't turn hunting off. It's not a normal job for normal people leading normal lives, but that doesn't mean that the hunters aren't still human.


Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two and a quarter weeks a year. You can't turn hunting off. It's not a normal job for normal people leading normal lives, but that doesn't mean that the hunters aren't still human. Sometimes all it takes is one case too many, that one extra knife wound, an all-night exorcism, to bring the shutters falling down. The body can only take so much.

Dean fell onto the cheap motel bed with a loud thump. His bag hit the floor at nearly the same time while Sam took over door duty, locking up behind them, checking one last time for someone who may have followed without invitation. The last hunt had been rough and Dean knew he needed a shower, but was currently too exhausted to care. Besides, they'd be on the road again first thing tomorrow with a new bed, new bleached sheets to crash in.

"Dibs on shower," Sam muttered sleepily, dropping his backpack and gently setting his computer down on the tiny dining table. He shuffled slowly towards the bathroom, shedding clothes as he went. Dean knew he'd clean them up on the way back to the bed, good ol' Sammy.

While the shower ran, Dean hauled himself off the bed and ripped his boots off. His entire body ached and protested and he cursed it mildly as he stumbled to wash his face and hands of the shifter ichor that still coated and stained them. Rat bastard had been a bitch to track too, over the hills and through the woods.

"To Grandmother's house we go," Dean muttered with a hoarse chuckle under his breath.

"What?" Sam called from behind the curtain currently leaking hot steam.

"Nothing."

Dean scrubbed his hands with the measley bar of soap the motel gifted them, then washed his too-hot face in water that felt deliciously cool. He dried himself with the rough towel then swiped a hand across the fogged mirror. A young man, ridden hard and put to bed wet stared back him, a two-day old beard darkening his chin. The glassy blue eyes were too wary for someone of his age, but there were still smile lines creased in by a tan won through plenty of outdoor work. Sometimes too much outdoor work.

He was getting sick and he knew it.

"Fuck me," Dean bitched softly.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Dean left the warm sanctuary of the bathroom and retreated back to bed. He grabbed a waterbottle from the table, down it in one breath, then quickly stripped and dove under the covers. The cool sheets hit his overly warm skin like a stake through a vampire's heart and he shivered violently before finally caving and stealing the extra blanket from the midget dresser. He passed out still shaking, but not before he made sure his hunting knife was under a pillow. Habits die hard even in the face of exhaustion.

When Sam finally emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped loosely around his waist, Dean was already snoring from the far bed. The noise wasn't what first tipped him off that something was different than usual, but rather the blanket. Dean could normally sleep stark naked under a sheet and wake up as peaches and sunshine in the morning. Even the thin comforter would hit the floor before midnight.

Ignoring his clothes on the floor, Sam walked to Dean's bed, making as much noise as he could in a towel. One of the first things he'd learned as a kid was that you never startle another hunter, especially out of sleep. He had a few scars to prove it.

"Dean? Dean?"

Carefully, cautiously, Sam reached out to the sleeping beast that was his brother and touched him on the shoulder. No reaction. Sam became more bold and pressed a single finger against Dean's forehead. Even after the hot shower, he can feel the heat and knew that, yet again, his brother has pushed himself too far.

He sighs.

After pulling on a clean pair of underwear, Sam drags the comforter off his own bed and drapes it over Dean who grabs it unconsciously and snuggles into the warmth. Tomorrow he'll get Dean some medicine and a few skin mags, the usual for when this happens, but for now he'll let his brother try to sleep it off. Time heals all wounds, but it's a bitch to wait for sometimes.


End file.
